


before i close my eyes (tell me everything's alright)

by BelieveMePlease



Series: prompts [2]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25792927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelieveMePlease/pseuds/BelieveMePlease
Summary: It is past midnight when George hears the bustle at the front door. The possible sound of car tires dragging up the gravel on his driveway outside had left him faintly wondering, but behind the closed windows keeping out the January sting he hadn’t quite been certain. From beneath his duvet he listens for the affirmation of keys being dropped, shoes being ridded, footsteps on the stairs. The visit is not a planned one, but George had allowed himself to wonder, had winced when the cameras had passed his way at the end of the game, the blood clear for every viewer to see. And George had known exactly who one viewer would be.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Series: prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1870921
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	before i close my eyes (tell me everything's alright)

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwP3zb-m8Ho) game where George suffered this nasty cut to his eye.

It is past midnight when George hears the bustle at the front door. The possible sound of car tires dragging up the gravel on his driveway outside had left him faintly wondering, but behind the closed windows keeping out the January sting he hadn’t quite been certain. From beneath his duvet he listens for the affirmation of keys being dropped, shoes being ridded, footsteps on the stairs. The visit is not a planned one, but George had allowed himself to wonder, had winced when the cameras had passed his way at the end of the game, the blood clear for every viewer to see. And George had known exactly who one viewer would be.

The bedroom door clicks. George doesn’t turn to face it. He doesn’t need to. The thud of a bag dropping to the floor is all he has to hear before he feels the dip in the bed, feels the press of a firm body colliding with his own. A kiss is touched to the back of his neck, eliciting the shiver that had been looming under the oppression of winter chilled fingertips against the warmth of his skin.

“Let me see,” Owen eventually whispers, nose tucking under and head tilting to bury in the taut muscle of George’s shoulder.

George sighs. Relishing in the feel of Owen’s arms holding tight around his middle, relaxing into the chest behind him, he shakes his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he tries meekly.

Persistent, though, Owen’s hands flatten to George’s hips and begin to encourage him to turn. Fatigued from the brutality of a one-point-loss mere hours earlier, George has neither the energy nor the passion to resist.

To him, the cut hadn’t felt too bad upon impact. Later, though, with Ben prodding at the wounded, tender flesh in intrigue, George had become more aware of its prevalence. He’d felt the blood while he had been playing, had mustered all resources not asserted into the game to keep the stream from his eye, but looking at the wound in the mirror upon returning him had shocked him as to quite how gory it appeared. Now, at the sound of Owen’s muted gasp, George finally allows his emotional response to whelm.

“Oh baby,” Owen sighs, head dipping forwards until he can press a kiss just above the gash.

“You didn’t have to come,” George diverts, although his voice cracks under the weight of it all, and he contradicts every word by cuddling himself close against Owen’s body, as uncaring of the dried blood flaking onto the sheets and t-shirts as his boyfriend is.

“Yes I did,” Owen murmurs, lips catching around strands of George’s damp hair as he speaks where he buries himself. “My baby is injured, I have to take of him.”

“’s a long drive,” George nuzzles himself against Owen’s pectoral, brings an arm to drape over his hip. Even midwinter their joint heat is stifling. George doesn’t care, absorbs every second.

“Worth it,” Owen promises. “Looked like a tough game,” he broaches tentatively a moment later, caution evident.

“Even tougher loss,” George swallows, blinking away the frustration that begins to boil. If he’s going to have to drag himself through all this on Monday, he may as well do it now; where it’s safe, where he’s loved and comforted and, as much as he can be, content.

“You played so well, though, Georgie, you know you did,” Owen comforts, already predicting the self-deprecation that’s swirling in George’s mind. “You’re carrying that team, and not just as a captain.”

“Missed that clearing kick, though, didn’t I?” George counters, shaking his head in immediate dispute. He can’t allow himself to get complacent, can’t simply overlook a mistake like that.

“And what else?” Owen asks, the answer abundant in George’s silence. “One mistake, Georgie – and a minor one at that – is hardly something to drag yourself over the coals for. In fact, it equals damn near perfect.”

“Wasn’t perfect,” George argues, but he’s feeling weak, tired. And when he’s trying to abhor himself in front of Owen he is never going to win. “The team could have played better, should have played better, and that means I could’ve too.”

“Not always,” Owen’s arms pinch into a tight squeeze at George’s waist, head retreating until his lips can close against George’s forehead once again. The slight catch of them on the graze makes George wince, his body shivering with tension.

“Sorry, sorry,” Owen apologises quickly, holding George ever tighter if that were even possible.

George simply shakes his head, body too worn to voice any verbal acknowledgement. He’s trembling under the stress of exhaustion, his only solace the soft stroke of Owen’s hand at the base of his spine.

“No matter what you say,” Owen whispers, second hand sliding up from beneath George’s side to sink his fingers into his hair, hold his head close to his chest. “You will always be perfect to me.”

The trembles waver just a touch as George feels his breathing begin to settle. Here the mistakes of the game don’t matter, the mistakes of any game don’t matter. Here is safety, here is home.

“I love you, baby,” Owen mumbles, as true as the first time he’d ever uttered those words.

“I love you too,” George promises, held safe and secure until sleep can finally embrace him. 

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: _Oh I just love when you write Owen comforting George (especially when he calls him baby) I dont know how many times I’ve reread ‘a little unsteady’ - it’s just so soft ☺️ I could just picture Owen crawling into George’s bed when he knows George is upset or hurt & holding him & telling him how amazing he is until he stops crying/falls asleep (kind of like in ‘another sunrise...’) it’s not really much of a prompt but i hope it helps you out of writers block_
> 
> Originally posted to my [tumblr](https://believeemeplease.tumblr.com/) where I always love to here your thoughts and prompts as well as in the comments below.


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